Yesterday we had a glucose test, which was not nearly as bad as I expected it to be. The point of a glucose test is to check for gestational diabetes--they give you a super sugary drink, then you wait and hour and have blood drawn to check blood sugar levels. I had heard horrible things about the drink--that it was thick, syrupy, and impossible to get down. In reality, it tasted like power-aide with a significant kick. It left me slightly jittery and made the baby do acrobatics, but went down easily.
While we were at the doctor's office, we received a big folder of information and a box full of useful baby things (samples, coupons, etc). The folder, which looked innocent enough covered in pictures of beautiful, smiling babies, contained very scary paperwork. Like the hospital pre-registration paperwork and the birth plan. The folder was the harbinger of the reality I've sort of been ignoring since November--this baby is going to have to come out. And fairly soon.
I've always been completely terrified of the birthing process. It just doesn't seem...normal. And yes, I realize that it is the most natural thing on the planet. Logically, I understand that a gazillion women have babies every day, and have been forever. And I understand that I live in a time where there are wonderful painkilling drugs and doctors and hospitals. My college educated brain understands this. However, there is a smaller, louder part of my brain that cannot wrap itself around the idea that in just a little over three months, I have to get a person (albeit a small one) out of me.
The birth plan asked a series of thought-provoking questions about our preferences for the birth of our little boy. I'll spare you the gory details (and some of them are truly gory--ick!!) except to say that I checked the box labeled, "I wish to have drugs administered at my request", pushing my pen down extra hard to make sure there was no confusion. My husband observed me doing this and commented, "yes, you don't have a very high tolerance for pain." This made me feel good--at least he thinks I have some tolerance.
While my husband and I had discussed most of the things on the list previously and knew what we wanted, it was a different story to actually fill out the form and hand it in. We also signed up for a childbirth education class, which happens in about a month. Until that point, I am not going to give the labor process another thought. I am going to spend one more glorious month believing that this whole labor thing is an elaborate hoax put on by all women in the world, and that the stork from Dumbo is going to deliver my perfect little boy (looking like one of the babies on the folder, no doubt) into my arms. I will be realistic next month. For now, I will focus on my favorite part of the folder: the list of stuff to pack in your hospital bag. I like bags, and I like stuff. I will then focus on the gigantic Panera Bread roast beef sandwich I am going to eat after the baby has arrived (how I miss deli meat!) and let my mind glaze over what happens between the bag-packing and sandwich-eating.
So until the childbirth class--Miss Scarlett, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies.
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